


backstitch

by mstigergun



Series: Inglorious [14]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Mother Henning, Post-Break Up, Pre-Relationship, and a tiny and grumpy old woman is perfect for the job, but also like, it's complicated - Freeform, someone needs to take care of leonid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:05:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5409281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mstigergun/pseuds/mstigergun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonid is not good at repairing his clothes, but he <i>is</i> good at ingratiating himself to old women who have no time for any of his nonsense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	backstitch

**Author's Note:**

> Set after ["The Stone Tree”](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Inglorious/works/4799615) and before [“Wild is the Wind”](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Inglorious/works/5004538) \-- so, before Basten and Leonid officially start not-dating again -- and due entirely to this silly idea I had because of a drawing [weyrbound](http://weyrbound.tumblr.com) did of my little jerkface and his beat-up clothes, and also because someone asked me what Leonid would be like with the kitchen staff after talking about Alla and the staff in [“The Golden Scythe.”](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Inglorious/works/5049310) Originally posted on [Tumblr](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com/post/133554528598/backstitch-inglorious).

“You don’t – It’s  _fine_  the way it is!” Leonid insists.

Esha’s eyes flick up from her careful examination of his tunic. Her fingers pinch at one cuff, rubbing the tattered fabric between her fingers. “Lenya,” she says, her voice a gravelly and serious rasp that would make him quake in his boots were he less courageous of a man, “In no way is this  _fine_.”

“It’s fine if I’m wearing it,” he tries. He even flashes her a charming smile.

She scoffs, shaking her head. Her efficient fingers skate up his arm, picking at loose threads and worn patches, old rips and tears he hasn’t bothered repairing. Not that he  _couldn’t_ , only –

Leonid is a very busy man, and so long as he’s not being bandied about by Josephine on a string of very dull and very stupid  _diplomatic missions_ , he has no reason to _pretty_  his wardrobe up. After all, he brings all of that with his natural good looks. Why, if he dressed any more finely, he might – oh,  _blind_  all of the patrons of the tavern. With his loveliness.

He starts to say as much, but Esha tuts. Her lips are pursed. Although she only comes up to Leonid’s shoulder and is old enough to be his  _mother’s_  grandmother, it’s a look disapproving enough to send a chill down Leonid’s spine.

“It’s not – all  _that_  bad,” he says.

She reaches and grasps at the collar, where it plunges down past his clavicle. A crease appears on her dark brow. “Look,” she says, tugging hard at the seam. “It’s  _frayed_. Why?”

Heat prickles between his shoulderblades, though Leonid can blame that entirely on the roaring fire in the dark room. It’s early enough in the afternoon that they’re still burning the fire hot to make coals for the evening’s meal.

“I don’t know!” Leonid cries, though he doesn’t dare wriggle out from under her narrow-eyed attention. “I – I’ve been in combat a number of times! These things happen,  _babka_. I’ve been busy!”

She tuts. Again, the little woman shakes her head, and Leonid feels all of five years old. How a hunched old woman manages to reduce him to a  _child_  remains –

Well, he does understand how it works. Esha is very competent indeed, and has nursed him through an inordinate number of hangovers and fusses over his hair when he comes to lounge in the kitchen while she kneads bread. Or stuffs birds for roasting. Or snaps at the other kitchen workers, who scurry about around her, as afraid of her disapproval as Leonid is now.

He’s always been a glowing presence in Esha’s eyes, a paragon of charm and  _good looks_. Her  _good and handsome boy_ , as she likes to say with a firm pat on his arm. That he’s now  _failed_  –

“Take it off,” she snaps, turning and toddling over to a tin kept on a high shelf next to the fire.

Leonid goes perfectly still. One of the kitchen workers, a girl younger than Leonid, is watching from the corner as she brushes pastries with egg. Her eyes glint, mouth twitching with amusement.

“ _Babka_ ,” Leonid pleads. “But –”

She doesn’t look back, reaching to grab the tin far above her head. “Don’t argue with me,” she says. “Can I have you running around looking like a vagabond? No. The Inquisitor knows you spend a great deal of time here, Lenya. What will he think to see you in such a state? What will he think of me? Old Esha, condoning  _disrepair_.”

“It’s not – This isn’t even my  _good_  shirt,” Leonid cries, pausing only long enough to shoot a sharp glare at the girl, who immediately returns to fussing with her pastries. His hands flutter at his sides, uneasy.

Esha turns back, features pinched. “Off,” she says, flat.

What else is to be done?

Leonid does allow himself to sigh once, very loudly. He shrugs out of his vest and hauls his tunic over his head, holding out the dark and crumpled fabric. He waves it at her. “Here,” he says, the word sounding far more petulant than he’d have imagined was possible for a lone syllable to manage.

She snatches his shirt away and sits down on the long bench next to the fire. She spreads it across her lap and rifles through the tin, searching for –

Whatever it is people keep in  _mending_  tins in  _kitchens_.

Leonid huffs, crossing his arms across his bare chest. The kitchens are very warm indeed, but he hardly likes to be a  _spectacle_.

Well, that’s not entirely true. He does rather enjoy being a spectacle, but  _only on his own terms_.

“Come,” Esha says, pausing in doing something finicky with a thread and needle to pat the bench next to her. “Sit.”

He obeys, because he must. And because she’s already cross with him, and he would very much again like to be in her good graces: her indulgent smile, and her tendency to slip him sweet things when she’s working and he’s  _hovering_  or  _monologuing_ , makes that a very good place to be indeed.

Leonid kicks his legs out, elbows propped up on the table behind them. Esha starts to work on one cuff with fingers that shouldn’t be nimble for how swollen they are by arthritis – and yet clever they are, practiced. Steady and certain. Heat rolls off the fire, seeping into his very pores, a yellow light painting him as might a –

Well, a painter. Painting someone by a fire.

He did always struggle with the  _art appreciation_  part of his education. The rest of it as well, if he’s being honest.

One of the girls who works for Esha slips into the room, and nearly walks into the shelf whereupon all of their cast iron pots are kept. Leonid flashes her a broad smile, and she turns bright red and disappears a moment later.

“So,” says Esha around the needle she has pursed in her lips. Her shrewd, dark gaze flashes his way, and Leonid wipes the grin from his face immediately. “Tell your  _babka_  about what has happened with the man you were seeing.”

Leonid jerks up, a movement so sudden he nearly tips off of the balance. At once, the heat of the fire is  _far_  too intense – vicious, as though it’s burnt itself into his bones and has no intention of ever leaving in him cold  _peace_  again. “What?” he asks. One hand reaches and pushes his hair from his forehead, where suddenly it’s become an irritation.

“The Qunari,” she says flatly. “Do not think I don’t have ears, Lenya. I hear many things.”

“I – We weren’t  _seeing_  each other!” Leonid insists.

In the corner, the girl, now piping filling into the pastries, snorts.

“We  _weren’t_ ,” he repeats, glaring at the back of her neck, though she’s too occupied with her work to notice. Likely, she can  _feel_  the venom, though, so that’s a job well enough done.

Esha’s frown tightens. Her fingers skate over the folds of his shirt, finding rips and tears he hadn’t even noticed and somehow making them –

Whole again.

She says nothing, but her silence has all the weight of a chastisement.

A short groan catches in his throat. He sighs again. “Esha,” he starts.

Again, her gaze flicks his way. “Only words that are true,” she says.

Well, that cuts out everything he could concoct that would be reasonable to say. Anything remotely  _palatable_. Again, he sighs. Flops himself back against the table.

What can he say?  _He makes my heart ache, and so we had to stop_. Or  _oh, it turns out I like kissing him a bit too much, which is far too soppy for a man of my standing and so we had to stop_. Or  _I think I could be happy just curled up inside his arms, and that is a ridiculous notion indeed. We couldn’t have that, babka!_

His jaw works. Leonid squirms in place, trying to find a comfortable way to sit on this wretched bench in this dark and smoky kitchen while the woman next to him fixes his clothes. Finally, he huffs. Finds something at least a little true. “I don’t want to settle down,  _babka_ ,” Leonid says. “And – things were getting more serious than I wanted.”

Esha says nothing, only sniffs. She tugs at her stitches experimentally. A low, thoughtful noise escapes her throat.

For several moments, there’s nothing but the crackling fire, the whisper of thread being tugged through fabric, the quiet echo of Leonid’s own unsteady heartbeat.

Then, “So long as you settle down  _eventually_ , Lenya. Don’t wait too long, or you will end up like me: too old for love, and crawling into a cold bed at night. You’re too good a boy for that.” She reaches and pats his knee.

Leonid feels a flush spreading across his cheekbones. He looks away. “Too  _handsome_  for it, is more like,” he offers. “I imagine I’ll have my choice of suitors when I do decide to  _settle_. Which will be when I’m a great deal older than you,  _babka_. Too old for love? Hardly.  _I_  love you.”

She chortles, and goes back to her mending. “You love me because I am honest,” she says. And then, after a pause, “ _And_  because I take care of you.”

“And you’re rather beautiful,” he adds. “Though not my type, I’m afraid.”

She laughs again, a sharp, barked sound, and shakes her head. “How right you are. I don’t stomach nearly enough of your nonsense to be your type, child.”

He might be insulted, but of course she’s right. And fighting her on the point would only get him deeper in trouble – which is exactly where Leonid  _doesn’t_  want to be, as he can see the edges of her mouth curling in her usual, indulgent smile.

“Do you want tea?” he asks after another moment of silence. “I can make some.”

She nods, waving a hand at him as he heads off across the room and toward the kettle and the little tin with dried tea leaves. “Tie a good knot in the bag,” she says. “And only two scoops, Lenya. The Inquisition is not made of coin. And –”

Her instructions continue, which he dutifully follows, skin baked warm by the heat rolling off the fire. When she does finally hand him back his tunic, which he gladly tugs on – though only after he’s startled and embarrassed another three of Esha’ workers – over his head, it’s immaculate: as good as new, all of the worn places somehow vanished.

Except even better, he thinks distantly, as he takes his leave and heads off through the passages in Skyhold to an overdue meeting with Josephine. When he moves, he can feel new stitches rubbing against his collarbone, against the inside of his wrist, over his heart.

 _Don’t wait too long_ , she said.

But it’s not the waiting that’s the problem. It’s the  _present_. It’s the  _being_  and the  _living_  and the  _becoming_.

Esha may think he’s her  _good and handsome boy_ , but –

Well. She hardly knows.

There are some things that can’t be mended by stiff fingers and an old tin from the kitchen, some things that are too tattered to be repaired, and Leonid is one of them.


End file.
